The Circle

She runs in circles.
Circles run in her.
A circle was cut on her cheek
At birth
And hidden beneath
A thing that looked like skin.
It was only discovered
After the men performed
Surgery without her consent
While she watched the
The metal instruments that sat
On the medical tray
Move towards her,
Like magnets.
Marked she was.
Destined to run in circles.
To draw in unwanted things.
The circles were her destiny.
A destiny that was not hers.
It was the circle’s.
So, one day she cut the circle out,
Waited until it healed, then
Took a needle and India ink,
And tattooed a spiral where
The circle had been.
Now she runs in spirals.
And spirals run in her.
She goes down, down, down
Into the rabbit hole to find
The truth
About the circle.

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MUSINGS

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots
Into o’er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
Where no man went; and if from shepherd’s keep
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
-Endymion, John Keats